


notorious

by kissteethstainred



Series: Famous AUs [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 02:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: In which Miller and Monty are (in)famous criminals.





	notorious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bythelightofthenight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythelightofthenight/gifts).



> this is dedicated to vilma bc she wrote a monty/miller fic like a month ago and i literally told her it inspired me to continue writing fic and . . . here it is. fuck everybody else vilma i love and respect YOU
> 
> if ur reading this ily too

An hour after the police showed up, Miller had reached his apartment, grabbed his extra money and necessary documents, and torched everything incriminating. 

Two hours after the police showed up, Miller had bought a new car and burner cell, and sent a quick _SOS_ with details of his situation to a number he’d had memorized for months now. He began the drive to Dallas to meet the man who’d hired Miller to steal a 8th-century collection of gold and silver Moche nose rings, counted upwards of 30 million dollars. The man, an art dealer specializing in Southern American objects, had asked Miller to steal it from _another_ Southern American art dealer. 

Three hours after the police showed up, Miller munched on an hours-old hot dog from 7-11 and watched the TV inside, which announced with BREAKING NEWS that infamous criminal and FBI-wanted John Murphy had been caught stealing a collection of gold and silver art pieces. Murphy’s accomplice, who still had the valuable artifacts, had not been caught, but Miller knew it wouldn’t be long before the FBI knew Miller had been there as well. Murphy would probably talk to get a lenient sentence. Even if he didn’t, mostly likely he still had notes and trails leading back to the man in Dallas, so Miller had to move fast. The ten million he pocketed—he took Murphy’s money as well—sat comfortably spread out in about fifteen different bank accounts by now. Miller finished his hot dog. 

By hour four, Miller had received an address in response to his SOS. Miller made a sharp turn on the highway he was on and began his drive up to Tennessee. 

-

The town at five in the morning was just beginning to wake, whereas Miller could feel the last edge of his caffeine dying. Miller finally parked at the address in his inbox, a small house that was either a comfortable one bedroom or a squished two bedroom. 

The heat of Tennessee pressed in on Miller, even this early in the morning. Dallas and the small cities of Texas had been a dry heat, and Miller dreaded Tennessee’s humidity. Miller slung his bag over his back and took the gun out from behind his belt. The front door was locked, as Miller guessed, but he couldn’t find a key hidden anywhere on the front porch. Miller sighed and eyed the side of the house. He’d have to break in through the back.

There was a deadbolt on the backdoor as well, but the window in the kitchen was easy enough to unlock. Miller had just opened the window and began to clamber inside when he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. Miller looked up, one leg in the sink, to find Monty Green pointing a gun at him. 

Monty lowered the gun and smiled. “Oh, thank God, you found the place,” he said.

-

Monty had barely locked up—“You’ll have to teach me about window locks in the morning,” he said—and showed Monty his squished second bedroom before Miller collapsed into sleep, gun still in hand. 

In the morning Monty read an article off of his phone. “Nine silver and gold nose rings, intricately carved and jeweled by a civilization predating the Inca . . . something something something . . . priced a nearly thirty million.” He whistled. “How much did you get?”

“Ten.” 

Monty whistled again. 

Miller said, “Why are you here?” 

They didn’t usually meet up in person. They were all in contact with one another, which meant they were all in contact with Monty. They had their own staches and safehouses to retreat to, but ever since the FBI created a 100 most-wanted list with all their names on it, they began to reconnect. Mostly it was for protection—some support, close safehouses if trouble came around. Monty, as the best tech around, handled all their information and kept it secret, encrypted, whatever he did. But they didn’t meet in person.

Monty sipped his orange juice. “Well, originally I was going to send you to Canada. But then the news hit that Murphy was caught, and I figured it wouldn’t be long before the FBI caught on about you. You need more than just a hidey-hole. You need a complete erasure of everything connecting you to that event as well as a good internet scrub. Files, pictures, even hints at your person . . .” Monty shrugged one shoulder. “So I brought you to me. Which reminds me. You need to lay low for the upcoming weeks. Maybe even months depending on the fallout from this theft.” 

Miller was still exhausted from driving all night. He said, “Laying low sounds fine to me.”

-

Apparently Miller and Monty’s definition of laying low were different. Miller thought Monty wouldn’t want them to be seen together, but on the third day Monty took Miller to the local farmer’s market after Miller complained about Monty’s food. 

“I never really learned to cook,” Monty said, sheepish, as they walked through the aisles of fruit and vegetables. “I was the typical coder-slash-hacker, you know, always eating microwavable shit because the computer was the only thing that mattered. Oh—here—”

They stopped at a table of fruit, manned by two older women. They exclaimed, “Peter!” to Monty, which was Monty’s current alias, and immediately they were in an excited conversation. Miller politely listened while he examined some strawberries. Mostly the talk was inane, shit about the weather and the crops, a bit thrown in about a town festival and upcoming elections and gossip. Here one of the older woman’s eyes turned to Miller. “And who’s this?” she asked. 

“Oh,” Monty said. “This is John. He was my best friend in high school.”

Miller shook their hands and said, “Pleasure to meet you.” 

They chatted for a bit more, Miller bought some berries, and he and Monty left to purchase more food. As they walked away from the two women, Monty said, “Sorry, it’s just—it’s nice, isn’t it?”

Miller was unsure what Monty was even apologizing about. “What is?”

“Familiarity,” Monty said. “I know Bellamy and Clarke and everyone discourages staying in one place too long and making friends, but it’s _nice_. When you get to know a place long enough, you learn its littlest details, all the intimacies that make up the place.” 

Monty was looking around the market with a wistful expression on his face. Miller didn’t want to be a buzzkill, but he said, “This is just a fantasy. We can never—” 

“I know.” Monty sounded tired. “It’s just nice, is all.” 

-

That night Miller expected Monty to go back to his computer—to Miller’s knowledge Monty had extra work he was hired for, as a third party who excelled in internet security—but instead he sat on the kitchen counter and watched Miller peel potatoes. 

“This can’t be that interesting,” Miller said. “Or, you know, you could help.”

“It’s comforting,” Monty said. “You have such steady hands. Which shouldn’t surprise me, because, you know, international thief, but—it’s fascinating to watch.”

Yesterday Miller had stolen one of Monty’s many flash drives and watched as Monty, confused, searched for it. He hadn’t even considered Miller an option until Miller tossed the drive at him. 

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Monty continued.

The answer was David Miller. Miller’s mother died and David Miller turned inward and ignored his son and then attempted to make peace with his son by teaching Miller his mother’s recipes. It had been too late for Miller and his father, but the recipes were important to Miller. 

“Not all of us want to eat ramen for the rest of our lives,” Miller said. 

“Better to die by sodium than the FBI, though,” Monty said, and Miller laughed for the first time in months. 

-

They settled into their routines. Monty worked at random hours, seemingly driven either by a time crunch or whenever inspiration hit. Miller entertained himself by various things. He walked around the neighborhood, went to the gym to keep in shape, cooked basically every meal, read some books he’d wanted to, looked at house listings in other states and countries in the Americas and considered whether or not to buy another safehouse. Sometimes Monty joined him in the house listings and they judged places together. 

“Why don’t you ever look at a continent other than the Americas?” Monty asked a week and a half in. “I hear seven others exist.”

“It’s easier for me to travel between these continents,” Miller said. “I only travel internationally for jobs.”

“Why?”

Miller looked up from the computer. Monty sat at Miller’s shoulder to get a look at the screen. “All the checkpoints you have to go through, the travel documents, the constant video and photography at airports,” Miller said. “Too many risks.” 

“I guess,” Monty said. “When you can pretty much hack in from anywhere and delete footage, all travel is easy.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “Must be nice,” he said, dry. 

“It is. I’ve been thinking of going to Italy after we’re done here,” Monty said. “I just can’t decide yet if I want to live in a small town or a big city.”

“Do you even know Italian?” 

“It would be an immersive learning experience.” Monty’s phone beeped. He glanced down at it and _hmm_ ed. It was strange how his face turned, Miller thought, from something eager and near childish with innocence into the intelligent and assessing criminal he really was. Or maybe he was both. More often than not Miller found himself puzzled about Monty and scrutinizing everything he knew, or thought he knew. 

-

Miller quickly learned that the two farmer’s market women were Barbara and Sue, they’d been together for nearly thirty years, and they’d basically adopted Monty. “And possibly because they think I’m gay,” Monty said the next time they went to the market. Miller was determined to get lots of herbs, and Monty determined to smile at everyone. It was concerning. 

They talked to Barbara and Sue the longest, and one thing became pretty evident from their conversation. “Not only do they think you’re gay,” Miller said once they left Barbara and Sue’s booth, “but I’m pretty sure they think we’re a couple.” When Monty looked at him in confusion, Miller said, “We’re in Tennessee, Monty. They’re gay. It’s not hard for them to read ‘Close friend from high school’ as ‘boyfriend.’”

Even more concerning than Monty’s smile was that he just _hmm_ ed at this, apparently unfazed. 

Miller could not help pressing the issue. “I just remember that you said I needed to lay low, and getting to know the townspeople and implying we’re _dating_ seems to be the opposite of that.” 

Monty eyed him. “So you’re worried because two lesbian farmers in Bumfuck, Tennessee, think that Peter and John, two friends from high school, might have some mutuals feelings to deal with?” 

No, Miller thought. The problem was the way Monty raised his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. The problem was the way sweat beaded where Monty’s hairline and shirt collar met. Miller told himself, _You haven’t had sex in ages and the last man you talked with regularly was goddamned_ Murphy _. Now you’re living with a gorgeous man. Of course you’re attracted to him._ Then he made himself say, “No,” out loud. 

The problem was that Monty always met his eyes, that Monty never backed down from Miller. “Alright then,” Monty said. 

-

A month in Monty finally asked, “How’d you start stealing?” 

Miller snorted and said, “Childhood emotional trauma.” 

“Don’t we all,” Monty said. “Come on, I want the juicy shit.” He was in the middle of mincing garlic, a glass of red wine further up on the countertop. Monty had eventually grown tired of simply watching Miller, and now it was routine for them to make dinner together. 

By now it was so long ago the words came out easily. “My mother died when I was eleven. I began stealing that year . . . it was the same year but I’d just turned twelve. And I started stealing from my middle school. Partly because I guess—who knows? I’d just lost something huge and wanted to replace it? Mostly I just wanted to say a ‘fuck you’ to my dad. He withdrew into himself after my mother died. I didn’t forgive him for abandoning me for a long time.” Miller grinned. “Also, he’s a cop. I thought—well, cops hate thieves.” 

“Smart,” Monty said, his smile around the lip of his wine glass suggesting suppressed laughter. 

“Be a smart-ass all you want, but I was right. Went to juvie when I was fourteen but instead of reforming me I just—learned from other kids. Other thieves. I think I kept doing it because I was good at it. Like, sure, I was passable at football and English class, but _stealing_ —no one could touch me.” 

“Until you were seventeen,” Monty said. 

Miller raised his eyebrow. “Have you read my file?” Monty didn’t answer, only smiled coyly and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, well, California is liberal for everyone except felons and juvie kids and _especially_ black juvie kids. I served about a year, made some connections, had a brief stint in smuggling because I could steal what people wanted, and then . . .” Miller shrugged. “How else do you get caught up in all this? Shit happens. I hadn’t even realized, all those years, that I was building a reputation until I had one. I just didn’t want to get caught. But when Bellamy hired me for that Wallace Cage project and it went off successfully—well, from then on I was under the eye of the FBI.” 

Monty’s expression wasn’t really playful anymore—it had done that switch back to assessing. Only, no, Miller realized, it wasn’t so much assessing as it was—appreciative. “I could joke again,” Monty said, “you know, about _don’t we all_ —but seriously. My mom did the same thing when my dad died.” 

Maybe that’s why Monty’s gaze was appreciative. Miller considered suddenly how easy it would be to make a snarky comment, or maybe to use this moment of connection to push himself closer to Monty and kiss him. Instead Miller asked, “So why did you do it?” 

Monty’s brow furrowed very slightly. “My father was murdered.” 

“And that’s it?”

“There’s nothing else. Everyone assumes I was some crusader for truth, you know, like my dad always imparted on me the importance of honesty, but—no. I just found out the U.S. government killed my dad overseas and I thought he deserved to be honored as he should have.” Monty closed his eyes briefly. “I mean, obviously, people deserved to know the truth. They _needed_ to. But I didn’t do it for the abstract idea of truth or—or justice. That’s bullshit. I did it because they killed my father and I had the information to prove it.” 

Miller failed to imagine it. He had found himself with a reputation as a notorious international thief without ever really choosing it. Even as he chose harder and harder jobs, it was always at the prospect of completing a challenge and the _internal_ pride rather than the repute. But Monty had chosen his life. One moment he had been a 23-year-old starting his first year of grad school, and the next he was a nationally wanted man for leaking U.S. military information that was meant to stay hidden forever. 

“So that’s why you never went Snowden,” Miller said. “I always wondered why you covered for other wanted criminals instead of seeking refuge.”

Monty was silent for a moment. “I’m just not some crusader for truth,” he said finally. “I don’t have a voice like that. That’s for Bellamy or Clarke to do. I’m more than happy helping others stay hidden and hacking the government again on occasion. Besides, it’s not too bad,” he said with a gesture to the house, “since I have millionaires paying for my room and board. That’s a pretty sweet deal.” 

“It’s just weird to think you could’ve had a normal life,” Miller said. “I’ve never really considered that an option. Even when I was younger.” That couldn’t be solely blamed on his criminal lifestyle, though. Miller had always known he was gay and thus always known he’d never have a normal life. 

“Not even now?” 

“ _Now_?” Miller snorted. “What are you gonna do, settle down and start a family? Get them killed when the FBI finally catch up to you?” 

Miller thought Monty would snap back with a sharp comment, but instead Monty’s tone and gaze went far away, away from Miller. “Sometimes I imagine myself just taking on a permanent identity and settling down, buying a house . . . maybe using the money I’ve collected to start a little business, something innocent . . . if I were just a random business owner in the middle of America, what reason would the FBI have to look closer? If I established myself in a community long enough, couldn’t I begin to blend in?”

 _No_ , Miller thought. Instead he said, “What happened to Italy?”

“Maybe I’ll settle there,” Monty said. “Start my own vineyard.” 

But that idea unsettled Miller as much as Monty choosing this life did. Miller had thought Monty just indulged in fantasies, but now it seemed Monty actually considered them. Wanted them past a mere fancy. That was dangerous. 

Miller said, “You have a place already. You have a community. Sure, you’ll never live in a house for thirty years, but you’ve found a place where you fit. You get to be who you are _and_ settle, in the small ways we can.” 

The way Monty was looking at him—now Miller considered the small space between them more dangerous than Monty’s fantasies. Miller took a step back and returned to cooking dinner. 

-

Monty knocked on Miller’s door while Miller was in the middle of reading. 

“I just found submitted documents for Murphy’s prison sentence,” Monty said. 

Miller put his book down. “How was it?”

“Long.” Monty pursed his lips. “But not as long as it could’ve been.”

“You think he talked,” Miller said. 

“I can’t know for sure,” Monty said. “But I just—there’s this feeling I got when I looked at his sentence and it was just—” He shook his head in frustration. 

“Okay,” Miller said. He’d been expecting this for so long that he didn’t feel any frustration. Just the cool acceptance of finally knowing information you’d needed. “So, what does this mean for me?” 

“I’d still recommend staying a while longer, especially if Murphy did talk,” Monty said, “but I believe your time’s ending soon. Don’t you?” Miller didn’t know how to answer that. Maybe Monty saw that, because he continued, “Why did you do it?”

“Stealing?” Miller asked. “You already got that story.” 

“No, I mean—why’d you take the job with Murphy in the first place? You know to stay low, and this was the exact opposite of that.”

“It was _supposed_ to be lowkey. I mean, yeah, some rich douche would’ve been upset and the FBI might’ve speculated the theft was my doing, but we were meant to get out easy. Murphy wasn’t supposed to get caught.” 

“Okay, so?” Monty gestured like he wanted Miller to speed up the story. 

“So . . . I get antsy. I told you, this is what I _do_. This is what I’m good at. I’m just supposed to stop? Run away forever? Hide?” Miller snorted. “I have to take jobs, or what else am I supposed to do with this life?” 

Monty crossed his arms. “You’re good at other things.” 

“Like what? Look, your skill lets you stay hidden and do what you want. You can get new jobs all the time without having to take all the risks I do. The thief is undercover, yes, but the theft is not. It’s always reported.” 

Monty tapped his fingers against the doorframe in thought. Then he sighed. “I guess,” he said. “I wish I could think of something to refute your words, but—I can’t.” Monty didn’t talk for a moment. “Would you talk, if you were ever caught?”

“No,” Miller said. “You?”

Monty smiled. “Never.” 

\--

“I stole from my father once, after I’d become a wanted criminal,” Miller said. He didn’t even have the excuse of alcohol this time. He had asked Monty about his college experience, since Miller had never gone, and then that had shifted to Monty and Miller’s stupid high school escapades, and further walking down memory lane and Miller found himself saying—

“I just became curious, I guess,” Miller continued. “I wanted to see how my dad was living, if things had changed at all. He was still a cop and still in our old house, and at first it looked like it had been easy to excise me from his life—but I could tell that wasn’t true. There were way more pictures in the house, pictures of my mom, of me. Plus my room was basically the same as I left it. 

I found my mother’s old cookbook. My father and I had once tried to follow the recipes, some kind of bonding shit . . . it didn’t go down well. But I always remembered her recipes. So I decided to steal it. I knew it was something he would notice was gone, too, and he would know it was me. No random thief would walk through that place and only take my mother’s cookbook . . . he would know. I wonder what he thinks about it.”

“When I first had to go on the run, I used to send my mother postcards of where I visited,” Monty said. “I just wanted to let her know that I was alive, that I was okay, and I wanted to stay in touch with her, but . . .” Monty let out a short, sad laugh. “She turned me in.”

“ _What_?” Miller asked. Miller’s father was a _cop_ , and to Miller’s knowledge his father had never done anything like that. 

“Yeah. FBI kept finding me, and at first I just thought—maybe they are this good. But then it got fucking annoying, so I hacked into their databases to see how they were tracking me and—” Monty lifted a hand as if to say, _that’s that_. “I saw my mother’s statements to the FBI. She turned in all my postcards.”

“Shit,” Miller said. “I’m so sorry, Monty.”

“It’s alright. I don’t blame her,” Monty said with a small smile. He passed a hand through his hair. “When you’re an immigrant, you have to be doubly patriotic than the average American. Of course my mom had to denounce me, otherwise they’d always watch her—first her husband and then her son—” Monty broke off. Then, quieter: “Or maybe that’s just the story I tell myself, so that I haven’t lost a father _and_ a mother.” 

Miller had lost both of his. “If you ever find out, you can always call me to talk again,” Miller said.

Monty smiled, and this time it wasn’t tinged with sadness. “I will.” 

\--

Soon Miller began to see his days dwindling before him. Every time he and Monty visited Barbara and Sue and walked around the farmer’s market, or walked around the town just to get out of the house, or cooked dinner together, or sat in front of the TV and got more drunk than they should have, more drunk than they had in years—

Miller realized with a beat of confusion that he had, despite his reservations to Monty, become used to their routines. And he was already mourning the loss of these routines as they occurred. 

It was a strange feeling to shake. Miller didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed it before, or why Monty had noticed it first, but Monty was right—Miller’s time in this town was ending soon. He had arrived during a hot July season, and though it was still warm, the crops at the farmer’s market had already shifted to fall produce. He would still have to lay low, most likely, but it would have to be somewhere else.

Monty came home with a world map, bought at the general store in town, and spread it out over their living room floor. They spent the next five days looking over the map, discussing where Miller could go based on the locations of safehouses, contacts, or even other criminals on the 100 wanted list. They went over transportation, disguises, paperwork, and protection. They didn’t need to talk about cash. 

It was procrastination disguised as productivity. 

\--

Monty began using their dinners as some sort of last hurrah. “Well, since you’re leaving, I won’t have good food like this for a while,” he said. “I want to recreate my favorites—or yours!—until you leave.”

The _until you leave_ part was still appropriately vague, although Miller had begun to shred documents and destroy any evidence leading back to this place. There was just no official departing date set. 

Miller felt like he was making the last meals prisoners received before the death penalty. Every bite he took, he fought hard to remember every detail.

After their sixth meal like this, they washed the dishes in silence. Usually they traded some stories or engaged in some kind of banter, but Miller’s mind couldn’t unstick from the solemnity of their actions. All he could manage was gratefulness for the warmth of the water. He handed the last dish to Monty to dry, toweled off his own hands, and then leaned against the counter. Monty didn’t dry the dish, however; he just watched Miller and then placed the towel and dish aside with a sigh. 

“You’re so serious,” Monty said. 

Miller said, “It’s harder to leave than I thought it would be.” 

Monty’s fingers found Miller’s on the sliver of counter bordering the sink. Monty’s fingers slid up to his wrist and lingered there. He didn’t look up from their hands. Miller let the intimacy occur for a stretch longer before he realized that that Monty was probably waiting on _him_.

Alright, he thought. Let’s do this together. One last hurrah. And Miller raised his hand to cup Monty’s face and kissed him. 

\--

“You were right,” Miller said. 

Monty made his usual _hmm_ noise, except this time it was sleepy and also muffled into Miller’s neck. 

Miller continued tracing patterns on Monty’s back. Monty stretched his shoulders a little and then resettled back into Miller’s body with a long sigh, like both his body and mind were now settled. 

“When you stay in a place long enough,” Miller continued, “or when you know a person long enough, and you begin to recognize all their habits and quirks. That familiarity. That intimacy.” Miller turned so he could brush his nose against Monty’s forehead. “It’s nice.” 

Monty pressed a soft kiss to Miller’s neck, and Miller thought that would be it: a gentle acknowledgement of Miller’s words. But then Monty kissed his neck again, then a little higher, pushed himself up on his elbow—and he whispered, “Nate,” right before he kissed Miller with all the intimacy and familiarity they now knew. 

\--

 

Miller did not have any time to appreciate Monty lying beside him. The second someone knocked on the door, Miller was alert and reaching for his gun, and Monty was already out of bed. Miller quickly put on pants and grabbed his gun while Monty hustled into boxers and a t-shirt. 

They made their way quietly to the front. Monty went to the door and Miller stopped in the small hallway, mostly hidden but with the front door in sight. Miller nodded at Monty and Monty nodded back. When Monty opened the door, Miller watched his hands, his body, waiting for a signal that it was somebody bad—

Monty relaxed and shouted in Miller’s direction, “It’s only Bellamy!” 

Miller, slightly confused, stowed his gun away and came out into the living room. 

“Of course it’s me,” Bellamy was saying as he came inside, “didn’t you get my message last night? I told you I was coming by.”

“Oh, did you?” Monty said. “Sorry, we were . . .” Monty scratched at his neck. “. . . busy.” 

Bellamy looked between him and Miller, and Miller did a tiny, mental _three_ , _two_ , _one_. Then Bellamy said, “Holy shit, did you guys have sex?”

Monty rolled his eyes. “I’m putting on actual clothes,” he said. 

\--

Bellamy let them both shower and change, and once Miller made breakfast and everyone settled, Bellamy began talking.

“I thought Miller might still be here, and since I’m on my way to Michigan, I figured I may as well pick him up,” Bellamy said. “If you weren’t here I was just gonna crash for a day or two, catch up with Monty, and be on my way.” 

“I’ve been planning to leave for a week or so now,” Miller said. “I just haven’t decided on a place yet.” 

“What were you thinking?” Bellamy asked. 

Monty pulled the map out and began discussing the places he and Miller had already gone over, he and Bellamy leaning over the map together. Monty asked about Bellamy’s path to Michigan, why he was going and where he was staying, and began to rethink where Miller was going to settle based on Bellamy’s plan.

Monty was saying, “Miller didn’t want to go to Quebec near the winter but since Bellamy is making his way to Michigan, that’ll be close to the border—”

“Actually,” Miller said, “I was thinking about relocating to Italy.”

Bellamy and Monty paused—Bellamy more in confusion, Monty in incredulity. Brow furrowed, Bellamy said, “I thought you didn’t like going international.”

“I don’t, because security is an issue,” Miller said. He tried to keep his voice nonchalant, especially since Monty seemed frozen. “But if I had someone there with me, who could deal with the security at the same time . . .”

Monty’s expression warred between disbelief and happiness. He said, “Nate, are you serious?”

Bellamy’s frown deepened. “Jesus, this is _way_ more than just sex, isn’t it?” 

Miller ignored Bellamy in favor of telling Monty that he was very serious. “In fact,” he said with a small smile, “I think you’re behind in packing.” 

-

David Miller sighed when his supervisor paged him and told him he had someone waiting to report a theft. They’d requested David specifically. David assumed it was Mrs. Rosana again—she was always calling about something from her apartment being stolen, and then David would file a report and get a call from her later saying the item had been with her son the whole time. David should really save her son’s phone number so they could bypass the whole process.

Except it wasn’t Mrs. Rosana, it was an Asian man with an easy smile on his face. He came straight to David’s desk and said, “David Miller?”

“Officer,” David corrected. He pulled up the theft report sheet on his computer. “Alright, for reporting a theft, I’ll need to start off with your name and address—”

“Oh, sorry,” the man interrupted. “But I’m not reporting a theft. I’m returning a stolen object.” 

David paused his fingers on the keys and frowned. “That’s not really how that works around here,” he said. “I don’t exactly have a database for stolen objects. Did you find a paper or something with a return number because we can—”

David froze when he saw the book that the man was bringing out of his backpack. It was Natalie’s cookbook. The man handed it over to David, and David took it delicately. 

Nate had stolen the cookbook from David years ago. When Natalie had first died, David had withdrawn to protect himself, which alienated Nate in the process. David realized his mistake and tried to bond with his son by going through Natalie’s cookbook together, trying out new recipes in the order they appeared. This would fix their relationship, David thought, and they could reconnect with Natalie together. 

But then David discovered Nate’s thievery five months into the endeavor, and David felt that any tender trust between them was broken. David emphasized Nate’s time in juvie as a way to learn and grow, but Nate only came out more distanced than before. It had been too late. 

Hushed, David asked, “Where did you get this?” 

“Nate wanted to return it,” the man said with a small smile. “He thinks you have better need of it right now.” 

The cookbook should have been confirmation enough, but it shook David to his core that this man knew Nate. And _called_ him Nate. David, incredulous and suspicious, asked, “What did you say your name was again?” 

The man’s smile only grew wider. He said, “I’m glad to have met you. Nate speaks about you a lot.” 

The man said that like it was a good thing. David wanted to ask a lot of questions—if Nate was close by, why didn’t Nate come to David himself, how exactly close this man was to Nate—but he kept it inside. This was Nate reestablishing their relationship, their fragile trust. David was not going to fuck that up.

The man stood, said, “Have a great day, officer,” and left. 

David looked down at the cookbook. It was still in perfect condition, Natalie’s _The Miller Family Cookbook_ clear and legible. David traced the letters and felt as if he were touching a sacred text. He cracked the book open and began flipping through the pages, memories rustling back—Natalie cooking in the kitchen, the way they would all sit at the kitchen table and talk about their day, David and Nate fumbling to reconstruct her recipes. 

He reached the very end of the recipe list. There was lots of space still left in the cookbook for David or Nate to write stuff, and—it appeared Nate had. There was only one new addition slipped between the plastic sheets, and, strangely, it was written on a postcard. David fished it out. The picture was some Tennessee town David didn’t know, and the other side was a recipe called _Barbara and Sue’s Raspberry Pie_. David would’ve considered it a random recipe, if not for the fact that it was Nate’s handwriting and the cookbook’s return was so clearly planned. 

David returned the postcard back to its place and decided to cook the pie that very night.

**Author's Note:**

> if u actually finished this ily even more bc . . . lol this place is DEAD and i haven't posted anything in over a year. uncanny valley feel folks. but growth as a writer is loving the process, not just the response, so here i am


End file.
